


Of Templars and Mages

by BitsandBobs



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Cassandra is totally a fangirl, Fluff, M/M, SO MUCH SEXUAL TENSION, Sexual Tension, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-20 22:50:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4805126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BitsandBobs/pseuds/BitsandBobs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders escapes Kirkwall with Knight-Captain Cullen Rutherford at his heels - but only for a time. Years later, the Breach brings them together again, and they must learn to work together for the good of the Inquisition (at least, that's what Cassandra <i>tells</i> them.)</p><p>   *This is an rp-in-progress turned fic, and as such, tags will be updated as chapters come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hunt

The ruins of the Chantry still lay around them, the rubble, dust, and all of the blood spilled onto so many stones. Yes, Justice was pleased. _He_ was pleased.  
  
There had been no middle-ground. Around them, mages and Templars alike lay dead, and Meredith frozen into a statue of pure Lyrium. They were alive.  
  
He was alive.  
  
And as Anders came back to himself, and saw the pain in Hakwe’s eyes, he knew that he would be spared. Spared, yes, but unwelcome. The city that he had called home had forever shut him out...and so he ran, deep into the darkness and the maze of Lowtown, down into the Underground passages that would lead him to safety, and, perhaps, to redemption.

While Kirkwall lay dismantled like a broken thing, men like Cullen Rutherford had been tasked to assemble the remains. While others mourned the loss of loved ones, Cullen had been left bitter and furious at it all, mourning the ever present burden of his blame. Anger boiled in his veins, and his hatred was directed towards both the mage’s zealotry and his own inadequacy. With Meredith’s defeat, Cullen's own rank had come into question, and like an aimless rat, his duties had drawn him to the dirtier corners of Kirkwall to root out any remaining scourge. Whether blood mages dwelling in the Underground, or looters thieving from the dead, all were the initial brewings of a second rebellion.

As the Knight-Captain made his way through the shantytowns, his bare fingers stroked the interior of his steel gauntlets, itching to raise the hilt of his sword. His current task had been to investigate the underground bar nearby, which he knew had put forth the first efforts in shuffling refugees out of Kirkwall. Mages had already retreated from the entrance before he stepped upon the threshold. The telltale spice of lyrium always gave him away before he was seen.

During the age of Meredith, he would have evacuated the entire underground for a single mage - these days, he pointedly ignored them, his resolution grown thin.    
  
Instead, he surveyed the bar with an intent, hazel gaze, and after finding nothing of immediate interest, sat down at a nearby table, armor scuffling. The bartender had sent a tankard of ale his way, as if to appease him. There was so many suspicious characters about him, whether cloaked and disfigured, that Cullen had to contemplate his investigation. Did they escape through a trapdoor? Was the bartender the initial contact? For now, he’d drink and reconsider.  
  
Anders held his breath as he peered up through the floorboard upon which the Knight-Commander walked, and silently thanked the bartender for his haste and silence. Slow and steady were Cullen’s steps, and Anders knew it was only a matter fo time nwo, before he was hunted down like a dog and made Tranquil like poor Karl.  
  
Only this time, Anders would have no one to end his misery.  
  
He shuddered, and shook the dark thoughts from his mind. He couldn’t afford to think like that now; he had to focus on escaping with his life, such as it was. Avoiding detection. He’d managed it before...  
  
He sighed and kept his gaze focused upwards as he, in counterpoint, moved quietly through the tunnel - though he was too nervous to notice how his staff dragged in the dirt, scraping along behind him.  
  
He’d raised the frosty tankard to his dry lips, anticipating the first taste of foam- before the first sounds of scuffling made him pause. Barely audible under all of the animated chatter, Cullen listened to a low scrape underneath his table, the sound of wood against- Ah. So there it was. Hesitating, Cullen lowered the beer down to his table, the blood rushing to his flushed ears. He was partially disappointed, the poor fool who had revealed himself should have known that giving the illusion of idle comfort was a ruse. But no, the bandit hadn’t waited two seconds for Cullen to drink his first sip, before he started his escape.  
  
The Knight-Captain’s face felt hot, and he could have sworn that the bar became nearly silent as he rose to his feet, pointing a steel gauntlet downwards. He’d still been unable to restrain the familiar excitement of the hunt, of mages, justice, glory.  “Your hospitality was appreciated, but I would have at least had liked to taken the pleasure of tasting your peace offering first. I am gravely disappointed. So, the question - Is there something you are hiding from me?”  
  
He’d only scrutinized the bartender’s face for a half second before shuffling nearby tables to the side. It was underneath the floorboards, Cullen could have sworn. Finally, he came across the subtle trapdoor, only evident by the direction of its wood grain, and he felt himself hum with triumph. Without further ado, the blonde raised the latch and lifted the contraption, only to dive feet first into the dirt below. The dust billowed around his armor, and Cullen squinted at the darkness, coughing at the grime that rose to meet him. But that sound, he heard it once again, that same vibrating hiss of stave against ground.  
  
A glimpse of a robe from meters away, and Cullen had his suspicions confirmed. “I can hear you!” he shouted, as he began to run down the narrow passage way, “Reveal yourself and avoid further punishment!” But the scuffling of the mage’s boots hadn’t stopped, and out of a final desperation, the Templar threw a fistful of light down the darkened tunnel, watching the smite illuminate the space before him as it pursued it’s target.  
  
The mage’s heart fell into his gut as he realized he’d been found out so easily. He’d let himself become _distracted_ by the thought of evasion. When he heard the sound of the trap door swinging open, he about froze to the spot, even though every muscle in his body tensed, and every instinct he had told him to _run, for the love of the Maker, run!_  
  
It wasn’t until he saw the smite hurtling towards him that Anders moved his leaden feet - and fell back into the passageway with a grunt. The Templar’s smite missed him - but just barely. He hardly had time to breathe a sigh of relief, instead firing off a nightmare curse as he scrabbled to his feet, and hurried further down the tunnel. Closer still to freedom.  
  
From behind him, Anders heard the Templar curse and howl as his spell hit it’s mark, and smiled weakly as he carried himself forward.  
  
The maze of tunnels would branch soon, he knew. Anders pushed himself to his feet to hurry himself along. He’d be outside the city walls in no time, away from the death and destruction and Templars.  
  
As he ran, Anders risked a glance back int the dark,curious to see if his pursuer yet hunted his steps.  
  
Cullen cursed with exasperation as his smite missed its mark. He hated failure, hated these scrambling pursuits, but alongside the chase came a glimmer of hope, for redemption. After having stood by and watched the Kirkwall’s Chantry falling into ashes, Cullen Rutherford could barely sleep without tossing and turning. He’d remembered the faces of his comrades, the gentle smile of Grand Cleric Elthina, and in his waking hours, it was the drive that brought him to put on the same heavy armor, day after day. And now, it compelled him to weed out Kirkwall’s most wanted, _the last remainders of a tainted, corrupt city..._  
  
The Templar choked on his own breath as a nightmare spell hit him squarely in the chest. Feeling his limbs pulling him in the opposite direction, he groaned. The mage hadn’t hit him with an offensive spell, despite Cullen’s smite - but that didn’t necessarily mean that he wasn’t in the pursuit of a macabre blood mage, the ones who had feasted upon Kirkwall’s corpses for ingredients for their disgusting, _unnatural_ spells - the one who had done such terrifying things to Hawke’s mother...As soon as the effect had dissipated, the Templar increased his speed, rage quivering in his voice, _“Stop, mage,  I command you!”_  
  
Did he recognize his voice? The desperate plea of Meredith’s right hand man? Cullen finally approached the branch in the passages, his teeth chattering with anger and annoyance. He squinted, unable to see past the dark corridors, - but surely, the mage could see him. The footsteps had gone silent, and Cullen had not even a sound to follow for direction. Even the Templars hadn’t explored these routes in detail - any further, and Cullen himself would become lost.  
  
Anders clapped a hand to his mouth to muffle the sound of his own breath as the Templar drew near. His own heart hammered in his chest to see the rage clear on the man’s face, the _hatred_. Yet, beneath all of that, a spark of recognition flared: he knew this man, at least in part. Hawke had spoken with him before!  
  
He hid himself further in the darkness of the left-hand tunnel and watched, wondering if his own appearance had given him away.  
  
As the minutes ticked by in sharp, stinging tension, Anders quickly mapped out what route was likely to get this man off his heels - left, then deeper into the maze. Yes, he thought desperately, it could work. He wouldn’t let himself be caught.  
  
He _couldn’t_.  
  
 He would have to make a run for it if he wanted any hope of escape. Another glance back at the Templar only solidified his decision, strengthened his resolve. He took a breath, gripped his staff tight, and bolted down the tunnel to veer left into creeping darkness as fast as his feet could carry him.  
  
“ _Maker_ ,” Cullen cursed, running steel-tipped fingers through his curls - if he pursued further, he’d become potentially lost in the labyrinth. However, if he built the courage to continue, he could finally bring another to justice. Cullen contemplated his position once more, before the frantic footsteps of the other man echoed down the passage. _Ah, but I cannot not be defeated like this,_ he thought. _He won’t escape - not this time._ The sounds of the mage’s retreat gave just enough indication for Cullen to track his movement in the darkness. Surely the mage’s quest for freedom would lead him outside. Incensed, Rutherford decided to continue on his trail, a growl of frustration issuing from his chapped lips. His armor twisted painfully into his side as he leapt into action. “ _You_!”  
  
He could hear the sound of the mage’s staff clattering against the pebbled walls, the fugitive’s labored breathing as Cullen drew closer.... _he’d have him.._  
  
With what energy he had left, Cullen threw another smite in his direction. The spell ricocheted instead of immobilizing his target, but to the Templar’s luck, the stones crumbled under the force - the collision granting him a barrier to temporarily block his opponent. As the mage tripped and fell to his knees, Cullen could almost taste the scent of his fear as he approached, alongside that faint, enticing lavender fragrance that usually marked the temptation of a mage...  
  
“You, _you_...” he huffed, pulling the ragged robes to face his enemy. But Cullen recoiled - _the familiar long hair, the blonde whiskers, the sad, fatigued eyes._ He knew this man - _Anders_ , the mage who had continued to evade Templar authority, the mage who had always fell in line against Hawke’s side, the mage who had conceived the Chantry’s demise, _the one who had done this to them all..._

.”.. _Anders_...” Cullen breathed in realization, his voice sounding hoarse and unlike himself. What a desperate wreck he must have seemed then - the hunger in his hazel eyes, fury in his reddened cheeks, before the shock of a familiar face..  
  
But there was no time for a reunion, or an arrest. In his determination to catch Anders, he hadn’t noticed the other fugitives who had made their way through the tunnels, nor did he expect to be on the receiving end of a petrification spell. With a gasp, Cullen’s face contorted with pain as he released Anders’ robes...  
  
As soon as his robes were released, Anders scrambled away from the prone figure, his brown eyes wide as he looked between the prone Templar and his saviors; the very men and women he himself had helped to save! He smiled, weakly, and got to his feet, taking up his staff in a shaking hand.  
  
“Thank you..” he rasped, weariness in his gaze as he found his bearings. In his mind, Justice - _Vengeance_ \- had gone quiet, leaving him blessedly alone with his thoughts, and those of the mages around him.  
  
At last, they would work together. At last, they would be free, and would leave this accursed city behind them.  
  
With one last glance at the motionless Templar whose face he recognized, Anders set off into the darkness with the small band of fellow mages, and hoped to find safe shelter elsewhere.


	2. Reunion

It had been nearly a year after Kirkwall’s fall, and Cullen had been recruited as the Commander of the Inquisition’s army. The practice fields buzzed with activity, as Rutherford pushed his way through the crowd, surveying his soldiers. “You have a sword, now use it!” he bellowed at a trainee, lips curling. _Amateurs_ , he thought, massaging his temples. The wind tugged at the blonde curls on his forehead - _He’d certainly lose them from stress, one day._  
  
Cullen had sought the chance to start anew, and Cassandra Pentaghast’s offer had appealed to him - a chance to overcome his past failures.  _But he was not a Templar,_ Cullen thought, _not any longer._

His mouth grew twisted and he shook his shoulders, tense. There was buzzing about near Skyhold’s gates, and he turned his attention. Pentaghast would be returning with recruits, people who she had declared were necessary to the Inquisition’s cause. He saw silhouettes among the distant crowd, drawing nearer, and sheathed his sword. As he walked towards them, he saw towering warriors and robed mages, but could not distinguish the faces. “So you’ve returned at last,” Cullen greeted, raising a hand to wave. It was only until a certain mage recruit came into view, that the welcoming expression on his face vanished.  
  
Anders gripped his staff firmly as he leaned against it in the chill morning air. His feet froze, but it was nothing compared to hiding in a ramshackle hut for months on end. And hide he had, once he’d fled Kirkwall. His flight had taken him back to Ferelden, ever fearful of one particular Templar dogging his steps the entire way.  
  
And yet, none had come. Every single night, Anders had kept one eye open, just waiting to see the sharp glint of armor in the moonlight, a sword drawn and held firmly in hand as hazel eyes fixed on him with righteous fury.  
  
None had come. He’d been alone, in the end, even as word of the fighting between mages and Templars reached him from every corner of the land. Not even Justice had remained. One morning, Anders had roused himself, and found his thoughts once again his own, tinged with the same fear and anger and worry as always, and not the order to make right what had gone wrong. The spirit had been appeased at last. And Anders was filled with a deep emptiness that gnawed at him, even as his heart sang its relief.  
  
And then the sky had opened, and demons had blighted the land once again. What little part of Anders that was still Grey Warden -for little left had remained upon Justice’s departure; the spirit had seen to that- had recoiled in fear. At least, until a group had come, seeking recruits, and led by a Herald of Andraste. People were hurt, they had said. They needed his skill at healing if they were to have a chance.  
  
And so, it was before the gates of Skyhold he now stood, shuffling in with the rest - until his eyes caught a familiar head of blond hair, the same hazel eyes staring out from beneath golden curls, and the familiar glint of metal.  
  
Anders stood stock-still, as though he’d just seen a spirit rise before him.  
  
Cullen could have sworn Cassandra was addressing him, but her words fell on deaf ears. His eyes were drawn to the mage they called Anders, that familiar sharp slope of a nose, the protrusion of cheekbones from an otherwise gaunt face, the deep, haunted eyes. It was the vision that he’d remembered during sleepless nights - the face of a mortal enemy, the one who was responsible for...the one who had... Cullen blinked, slowly. “ _...knows more about the Grey Wardens of Orlais and Weisshaupt,_ ” Cassandra continued, before pausing, “Cullen? Are you listening, or has something _important_ caught your attention?”  
  
Cullen refocused his attention, clearing his voice. “Yes, I am listening. My most profound apologies, Seeker. As for my lack of focus - I must admit that my mind was riddled with other tasks of the Inquisition.” he spoke in a forced voice. He was in front of his peers, and this was not an opportunity to confront a higher ranking officer over vedettas. But surely, Pentaghast would have been aware of Anders’s role in the events of Kirkwall? How was this possible?  
  
Forcing composure, he nodded in salutation to their newest recruits, reciprocating the greetings on their foreign faces. With each handshake, his grip was firm, practiced. But as it finally came down to Anders, Cullen faltered. Quietly, he exhaled the breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “I believe we have met before, I am Commander Cullen Rutherford of the Inquisition,” he began, “Although I believe _you_ would have known me under a _different_ title.” He hoped his eyes were without malice, that his handshake was gentle and firm, and that the mage couldn’t hear the thundering rhythm of his building anger.  
  
“May I ask what has drawn you, formerly of isolated nature, to join the Inquisition’s forces?” He asked with feigned politeness, although “ _Bandit, Fugitive, Criminal”_ were the words he actually had in mind. Cullen’s lips curled with distaste. “Or, Cassandra, do you care to inform me of the details at a later date?”  
  
The mage made to open his mouth - whether to speak, or just in shock, not even he was certain, for his hand still tingled where Cullen had touched it. Before he could give anything in his mind a voice, Cassandra swiftly cut in.  
  
“His is a most _peculiar_ case. I shall inform you later, in full.” There was little room for negotiation in her voice. “But let me say up front  that he has talents of which we are in great need of. He’ll be a help to the wounded, for one thing.”  
  
Cassandra was no fool. She had read Varric’s account of the Champion, and everything that had happened in Kirkwall; she knew of Anders’ past, just as she was aware of Cullen’s, to some extent. She knew that there was much, now, that the mage wished to atone for, much that he regretted. The Inquisition was the best place to start.  
  
“Will this be a problem, Commander?” She arched one dark eyebrow at the man, and frowned.  
  
“No, that is all, if I have any complications or questions, I would be sure to forward them to you, Seeker,” he replied, stammering at the firmness of Pentaghast’s rebuttal. Cullen felt a blush creeping up his neck and into his beard, shamed by his own boldness and her swift reprimand. He averted his gaze, unwilling to look Anders in the eyes. “I can say that with certainty, my men would be blessed with skilled healers, you and your talents are welcomed.”  
  
Flushed, embarrassed, and partially infuriated, Cullen silently counted the moments passing, waiting for his opportunity to retreat. As Cassandra turned to give further introductions, he turned his back and exhaled, unclenching his fists. Suddenly, he realized the coldness of the air once more, and the bead of sweat that slowly trickled down his forehead. _Had he been sweating? When had it become so excruciating in his armor?_ Cullen bit his lip, gave a last glance towards Cassandra, and began to make his way back over to his soldiers. Anders, _Anders_. Surely, this was a terrible idea. And if he had to be the one that woke Anders with a blade to his throat, he would have acted upon his duty as any ex-Templar would. He would have avenged his losses. Growing with exasperation, he heaved his sword and swung it against the nearest practice dummy, imagining it to have that terrible mage’s face. _Damn it all to hell._  
  
He wiped the sweat from his brow again and paused to gaze over at Anders once more. But Cassandra was making her way towards him, Anders alongside her. Cullen winced as the sweat stung his eyes. He’d have words to exchange, but was she intending for him to do that _now_? He groaned inwardly.  
  
“I realize that your hasty retreat was due to your busy schedule, Commander,” Cassandra began, “But in the meantime, I believe it would be a good opportunity for you and your soldiers to become acquainted with your new healer - you’ll be entrusting each other with your lives soon, after all.” She gave him a pointed look.  
  
And with that she left, leaving Commander Cullen Rutherford dumbfounded. Cullen hesitated, feeling the sudden tension. “So,” he began, “I hope that after whatever has kept you occupied following Kirkwall, you still remember a few spells.” _Oh, Maker._ He felt himself flushing again, his armor feeling a little tighter.  
  
Anders was unsure where to look; the blade in the ex-Templar’s hands sent a chill down his spine, but the look in his eyes, that unmistakable mingling of hatred and resignation chilled him even more. So, he had not forgotten. Of course not; he doubted anyone could. But, that was then, he had to remind himself. He had been brought here for a purpose - which was now, apparently, to serve this very same ex-Templar’s men.  
  
“I haven’t forgotten the ones that matter,” Anders replied with a frown of his own as memories that had never truly left came bubbling back to the surface: _Kirkwall’s Chantry in rubble, blood and dust everywhere, bodies littering the streets. The screams of terror and pain ringing in his ears, even through Vengeance’s hold. Blood on his shoes, dark red and glistening. Being chased through the Underground, the Templar at his heels, throwing smite after smite in an attempt to slow him down...._  
  
“Your men are safe in my hands.” There was truth in his voice and in his gaze as he willed himself to meet Cullen’s eyes at last, after years of hiding and being haunted by his nightmares. “I promise.”  
  
He locked eyes with the other man, and inhaled. Anders’s submission was humbling, he supposed. _When had anything in Anders’s hands ever been safe?_ But Cullen steeled himself, instead, giving a courteous nod. He recognized that he had done nothing but bristle at their introduction, and there was no benefit to be had from hostility. Cullen reminded himself that they were now two men redefined by the Inquisition. The circumstances had changed, and Cullen would resign to keeping his anger in check.  
  
“Alright,” he finally replied, his voice smooth and patient, as he allowed his initial anger to burn off into nothing, “For now, I am choosing to trust your word.” He paused, as his eyes flickered over the man’s body. Surprised by the still ragged robes, Cullen disapproved, clicking his tongue, “I assume you haven’t been shown to your quarters. Whether fighting in combat or healing men, I can’t trust you with anyone with such petty armor,”  
  
His eyebrows crinkled as he frowned. “And, more importantly, you eaten a full meal in the past few hours?” Tall and lean, Anders still looked as thin as Cullen remembered him. He had always wondered how the mage found the strength to heal at all, how Anders managed to contort his staff with skill despite what seemed to be an ever-present gauntness. _Perhaps there was a lithe, strong quality to Anders that wasn’t apparent to the eye,_ Cullen thought, intrigued.  
  
The commander barked at a nearby soldier, assuming his leave. “Come,” he murmured to Anders, shaking his head with wonder, “I suppose Pentaghast forgot to mention that my duties entailed such trivial things as clothing and feeding soldiers. But at present, you are far from prepared to fight alongside me.”  
  
And with that, he began his way across the grasses to the fortress, where fresh robes and bowls of steaming soup awaited. He turned, to see that Anders hadn’t moved at all, and raised an eyebrow. “Are you coming?” he asked, waving his hand impatiently. _It was Cullen’s duty to keep Anders safe. What irony._  
  
Anders had finally caught sight of the massive fortress in whose courtyard they now stood. Imposing, and yet secure; comforting, all at once. Yet, among all of these soldiers, was he truly safe? He looked to Cullen at his call, and moved forward without a word, tensing even so at the strange sort of familiarity. A mage being led by a Templar. He snorted.  
  
It wasn’t until they stepped inside the fortress’s main hall that Anders finally spoke. “Am I not? Well...please, allow me to conform to your expectations. It is hard to keep a fighter’s figure running for your life.” There was a vague sharpness in his voice, borne of hunger and exhaustion, and Anders closed his eyes. He sighed, and as the rich, heady scent of soup hit his nose, he fairly moaned. It had been long indeed since he’d had food warm enough or rich enough to be called decent. That thought drew him even more than the prospect of fresh clothes and a bed - and at the moment, it mattered little where they placed him, so long as there was food like this within reach.  
  
“I suppose I won’t be allowed to... _assess my charges_ until I’ve seen proper rest. Is that so, Commander?” he asked as he sat and eagerly began to eat, savoring the first swallow that burned down his too-dry throat. “I heard what happened at Haven. How many of your men are wounded at current?”  
  
He winced at the mage’s retort, before his anger briefly resurfaced. “Running from your life? Why, I hadn’t known. Someone in particular?” Cullen wanted to make another scathing remark, but bit his tongue. And whose fault had that been? Which Templar had chased him down, only to let him slip from his grasp? And by whose actions had prompted Anders’s hasty retreat, but his own? His eyebrows crossed in irritation as he ruminated, annoyed at the mage’s implications. But as Anders sat before him now, regretful and grateful for a morning meal, Cullen decided he was too exhausted to pursue the topic.  
  
He protested with a raised hand when a steaming bowl was also presented to him. Ah, but mage dug in with such hunger, and that grateful hum Anders made when the spoon first hit his tongue - maybe Cullen was a little famished, himself. He broke bread between his finger and thumb and looked down at his soup, his concentration lost to the swirling broth and specks of vegetables. _A ghost of Kirkwall sat before him,_ he thought, _And with it comes the memories._  
  
But the Commander was a decent man, and Cullen found that it soothed something inside of himself to see Anders shoveling food down so graciously. He imagined it was a tough life indeed, to constantly travel with a growling stomach and a head of nightmares - for a moment, maybe Cullen could sympathize. For now, Anders was but a man in need, and as he appreciated the sight of the mage eating, he chewed his own hunk of bread slowly, the taste forgotten.  
  
He started at the title of Commander, and lifted his gaze from the mage’s lips, meeting his eyes. Had Anders asked a question? Cullen stammered, realizing that he’d been staring. “I regret to say too many. Nearly half of our forces stationed at Haven. The lives of good men wasted by such thoughtless destruction.” He answered in a strained voice, suddenly finding interest in his soup. Cullen lifted the spoon to his lips, and nodded with gratitude as a servant carried over a pitcher of milk and a new basket of buttered rolls. As he poured himself a glass, his discomfort was apparent. He could’ve eaten all he wanted, but it wouldn’t fill the void that he felt inside.  
  
Anders watched Cullen in his thought, his own spoon pausing before his lips at the man’s dazed expression. _Thoughtless destruction, indeed._ The sentiment smacked of Kirkwall, as much as it did the Conclave, for....what were these two actions, really, but mirrors of one another? He’d been in the very grips of Vengeance’s ire then, pushed far beyond his limits. Too blind to see what consequences his actions would bring, both good and bad.  
  
Now he saw clearly, and what he saw left a pit in his heart, deep and wretched and raw. He doubted hat even he in his skill could heal it. Yet, as his eyes trailed over Cullen’s face, he realized that he bore many of the same scars, and he....didn’t quite know what to make of it.  
  
“I am sorry.” he murmured, as another spoonful passed his lips. “I will endeavor to keep what men remain fighting at your side.” It was one promise he knew he could keep. Yes, the Commander’s men, and anyone else in Skyhold who would have him, when no one else would. He caught sight of his reflection in the steaming bowl of soup, and cringed inwardly. Haggard, wan, and far too thin. Suddenly, that achingly familiar wave of loneliness struck him and he pushed away his bowl (though his stomach protested), leaving it half-eaten.  
  
“....and,” he swallowed, and poured himself a glass, just to wet his lips. “..I will help to fight Corypheus as best I can.” Yes...Hawke would have wanted that. Hawke would have wanted someone to make repairs for what had gone wrong.  
  
Cullen gently pushed the bowl back towards Anders. “Thank you,” he murmured softly, “But please, eat. You may feel full now, but you will need the extra energy.” He’d have to force feed the mage if he had to, perhaps then it was the only way that Anders could grow some muscles on his frame. “We didn’t come here to reminisce, and I fear that sore subjects are distracting us from the task at hand.” He had yet to show him to his quarters, and Cullen wasn’t particularly experienced in touring new recruits - _surely Cassandra had intended this interaction as a mode for them to make peace. How transparent_ , Cullen mused.  
  
He sopped up a last sip of broth with a remainder of crusted bread, and sighed at his full stomach. In two hours, he’d be ravenous again, sore from the weight of his sword and the collision of armor. It was an entirely different sort of exhaustion from the ache and bloodshed he met on the battlefield. Would Anders be capable of such encounters? This frail thing, he thought, shaking his head in disapproval. Even so, he mused, Would his life be safe in the healers’ hands?  
  
“In a minute I expect I’ll be guiding you to the mage’s barracks - there you’ll find fresh robes and a firm bed. You’ll then get some rest before acquainting yourself with the rest of Skyhold.” he began, imitating the dull tirade of an introduction.

“Not quite, I’ve failed to pass on the news in time,” a familiar female voice interrupted, and Cullen turned to see Cassandra over his shoulder.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked, tone lilting with surprise. _More unpleasant news, Andraste has surely blessed me,_ he grumbled inwardly, dreading the Seeker’s news.  
  
“Commander Rutherford, the mages’ barracks can barely contain our recruits as is - and I do believe that at present, your own quarters remain _insufficient_. Leliana and I have decided to open up the northwest wing while we reorganize. If you have no objections, we’ll relocate you into the open quarters there, temporarily, of course, along with Anders. You will find that it conveniently neighbors your office, which you may still access while the roof is being repaired.”  
  
Great, Cullen thought. The day had featured a most pleasant turn of events, his authority constantly undermined. Commander Rutherford, Skyhold tour guide, host, barrack bunk partner. Cullen shook his head and huffed softly. “But, Seeker, the roof had given me a scenic view of the sky. I suppose I have no choice, do I?” He looked across at Anders, raising his eyebrows, as Pentaghast continued. “If you two are finished, I’ll be the one showing you two to your quarters..”  
  
Anders frowned at the Seeker’s news, but remained, for the most part, unsurprising. Of course, it seemed that the Maker saw fit to push them together come inferno or high water. Still, it was she who sought him out, who offered him refuge and a second chance, and he would not refuse her.  
  
“Of course,” he said quietly, and rose, gripping his staff firmly in the presence of the other man. They had been civil as they broke bread, yet he could not say how that would hold over into their new _living arrangements_. At least at the Circle, hellish place it had been, mages and Templars had been separated by a door. He wondered if such a luxury would be afforded to either of them now after so long.

 

* * *

 

  
It didn’t take long for Cassandra to show them to their quarters, taking the steps two at a time. She opened the old wooden door on a set of living quarters that looked to have been recently refurbished, if still a bit rickety: a single room with two beds on either side, one of which Anders suspected had been taken directly from the Commander’s own office, if the dust and snow and occasional bird feather was any indication.  
  
That thought alone brought a small smirk to Anders’ tired face.  
  
“You will be comfortable here, I trust?” Cassandra queried, again directed at Cullen, more of an order than an outright question. They would be comfortable here. The room, such as it was, was warmly lit by a candle on each bed-stand. Wash utilities - a basin, cloths and a chamberpot had been settled off in he far corner, presumably for privacy,  
  
“Cozy,” Anders said, chuckling quietly in relief. Cozy, yes, but the bed looked sublime.  
  
“Good,” said Cassandra, and nodded to them both as she turned to leave. “I’ll send for you once the other refugees have been settled in. There is still much to discuss.”  
  
Cullen, however, was not impressed. During his years as a Templar, and on the field, he’d been accustomed to sharing his sleeping space with other men - that was a non-issue. However, of recent weeks, as he had slowly weaned himself off of lyrium, the Templar’s nightmares had become worse and worse. The thrashing and grinding of the teeth, the moaning in the night, not even Cassandra herself knew of hs nightly struggles. It was not information that Cullen especially wouldn’t want Anders to become privy to. It was a terrible secret, the memories of the Circle Tower overwhelming him during those nights...  
  
He sighed out loud. _But he did he have a choice?_ “Thank you, Seeker,” he murmured politely, hiding his distaste. “This will do.” As she departed, he inspected the room further, wiping his finger against the wall. Perfectly clean, as he expected. “Although lacking in size and privacy, it’s certainly an improvement from what I am used to,” Cullen began, amused by the total disregard for his clearly defiled bed. “I imagine the same applies to you.”  
  
“In that case, I will leave you to wash and rest. I must attend to my soldiers and see the day’s work through. Take as much time as you need, although I do suggest waking up at least for dinner. You would need it.” It was some effort to remain civil, after all, not only would Cullen have to worry about Anders’s capabilities as a healer, he’d have to share his resting place alongside him. He cleared his throat, suddenly somber. “Before I leave, I just want to clarify..”  
  
“As of now, you and I are members of the Inquisition. I realize that we both have our pasts, and if you’ll accept it, I..I apologize for any disservice I’ve done. I know the last circumstances of our last encounter were...unfortunate. Perhaps at another time, when you are well-rested and feeling brighter, we could discuss it further.” He ran his fingers through his hair, suddenly feeling ill at ease. He didn’t mean the words, but he knew that Anders had to hear them..  
  
He looked Anders in the eyes, his honeyed gaze deceptively genuine. “I hope you’ll find peace here. I believe your intent to defeat Corypheus - a shared ideal.”  
  
_Unfortunate..._ yes, that was certainly an understatement. Still, Anders would not refuse the Commander’s offer of peace, however tentative it felt. He met Cullen’s gaze and was given a faint spur of hope that things might very well improve.  
  
“Thank you..” Anders mumbled. In truth, it did help to hear those words, even if they didn’t exactly stir feelings of gladness in him. He sighed, and sank down on his bed (and how good it felt to finally have a bed of his own!), before he met Cullen’s gaze again. “I would..like to discuss what happened...” Anders lied. Digging up old wounds, old, yet not old enough, was not a thing he was looking forward to, especially with so much weighing him down. However, as a healer, he knew that he would not truly be able to heal until he had done so. And how could he be expected to heal those in his charge otherwise? This was all so very much harder without Justice to keep him firmly focused...  
  
Perhaps, after he had a rest, and a chance to figure his way around this place.  
  
“Until dinner, then..” he said, giving the Commander a nod even as he tugged off his boots. “Until dinner.”  
  
 Cullen forced a smile as he lingered in the doorway. Once closed, he exhaled the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

_How long could it last?_


	3. Dinner

It'd been nearly thirty minutes into dinner service, and Cullen assumed that Anders would sleep through. He had expected as much, considering the fatigued, twitchy demeanor, alongside the dark circles under the mage's eyes. He was secretly relieved, having hoped that Anders wouldn't show, as it meant eating his meal in peace. Cullen dug into his meat with vigor, before spearing a potato wedge and hauling it into his mouth.

"Well, I imagine it would only require three other men, a defensive warrior, perhaps a rogue, a healing mage, and whatever kind of other offense if ideally available.." he began, chewing thoughtfully.

"Then I offer my services, if you need Bianca," Varric volunteered, "Although I heard that Blondie has returned to grace us. You need a healer - might as well have a Kirkwall reunion while we're at it." he added, chuckling. "I did miss that shithole of a town, even the piss ale."

But Cullen scowled, his cheeks coloring with anger. "I take it by Blondie that you mean Anders, and not me." he began, "In which case, we are most certainly not bringing that forsaken... _mage_...along." He brandished his fork like a weapon, snapping with annoyance.

"Clearly Pentaghast has decided to believe a more graceful, inspired story of redemption," Cullen continued, voice quivering with the affects of wine, "But am I the only one here who recalls what transpired in Kirkwall? You're eager to taste Kirkwall's piss ale, and yet seem to have forgotten entirely that it was  _Anders_  who destroyed the Chantry, it was by his hand that more lives were carelessly lost. And now he dwells among us?"

"Everyone has surely gone mad." He glowered into his glass, fingers trembling upon the stem. He'd had enough excitement.  _Enough._

 _"Calm down_ , Curly." Varric warned, forcing a laugh to ease the tension. "Let's not bring up the old scrapbook of bad memories, tonight." 

 _But Cullen wasn't happy, no_  - and furthermore, he didn't care to rigole and ignore the situation like Varric, who had forgotten that Anders's radicalism had caused the death of his best friend. "I  _AM_  calm," the Commander replied in a controlled voice, forking another potato.

"In fact, it seems that I am _the only one_."  

It was to this scene that Anders came down to dinner, after having slept the day away, utterly dead to the world, alone in the quiet of their shared quarters. It had been peaceful - save for the snippets of nightmares that continued to plague him afresh, trapped in the grip of Justice's wrath.

He'd awoken in a cold sweat, staring at the ceiling. Always the same nightmare, always the same fears whirling 'round and 'round in his mind. He'd ran a hand through his hair and changed into the fresh robe hat had been left for him while he slept, and in doing so, realized, with a pang, that he was hungry once again.

Cullen had been right.

Anders ducked his head, feeling the palpable tension that seemed to rise off of Cullen in  _waves_ , and quietly made his way over with a plate held in his hands. So much for a quiet dinner, he supposed. He sat awkwardly near Varric, and greeted him with a weak nod. "Evening, Varric..."

Varric had just grinned, eyes full of laughter. "Blondy, it's been a while, hasn't it?" he asked, a chuckle in his voice.

Cullen redirected his attention to his dinner, a slow, furious blush creeping up into his beard again.  _He hoped Anders hadn't heard a word of it._

_"We were just discussing Orlesian politics,"_  Varric continued, the rogue's ability to conjure quick lies leaving Cullen grateful, for once. "Apparently, Curly and I, Cullen - have opposing opinions on.... _acceptable alliances_."

Cullen took another long draught of wine from his glass, swishing the dark liquid with his tongue.  _Wine would help_ , he thought. It would help him sleep through what seemed to be be a long, uncomfortable night. What he preferred was a vial of lyrium, the cool, fragrant liquid hitting the back of his throat, or applied with a syringe when its affects needed to be achieved faster - Cullen's fingers trembled, and he shoved his hands under the table. In times of extreme stress, he felt the affects of his withdrawal the most, and even the spicy whiff of another Templar had the ability to drive him mad, let alone a potioned mage...

"Orlesian politics are not something I would prefer to discuss at the dinner table," Cullen finally replied, flagging down a servant for another flagon of wine. He filled his glass a second time and brought it to his lips with careful deliberation.  _Andraste forbid if his fingers shivered - how obvious?_

"Or ever, may I add."  _Had Cole added honey to the batch?_  he wondered, before spearing another piece of meat,  _It was unusually delicious today_. And Cullen reminded himself that he was _starving_. He watched Anders as the mage made himself comfortable among them, noting his clean hair and new robes.

_Yes,_  Cullen mused,  _A bit of sleep, a belly of a food, and new robes - Anders had looked worse for wear, but now,_  if Cullen would admit it, the mage _kind of looked, well, sort of handsome._

A chuckle, weak, but warmer than the last, left the mage's lips at the warmth in Varric's voice. "Mm.... and who are our allies, then? I hadn't thought the Orlesians wanted anything to do with  _any_ of... _this_..."

Anders waved a hand vaguely to avoid stirring up even more negative sentiment, and fell quiet long enough to spear a bite of potato onto his fork. Truthfully, he hadn't kept up with any politics, save for those that had a sword and were hunting him and fellow mages down. It hadn't crossed his mind to broach the subject with Seeker Penteghast during their trek to Skyhold - a decision which, in hindsight, he'd thought had been rather wise.

He lifted a glass to his lips and found himself smiling at the bittersweet tang of the wine, and..a hint of honey, if his tongue did not lie. It had been so long since he'd had a proper drink, he'd almost forgotten the taste. As the wine warmed his belly, Anders's eyes went to Cullen, and, despite their earlier tension, he offered the Commander a smile, his eyes warm and bright, despite the shadows still beneath them. 

 It felt  _good_  to be included; to feel like, for a time, he  _belonged_.

"The Orlesians cannot even muster up the organization to agree upon themselves," Varric began, "With Duke Gaspard and the Empress Celene always plotting against each other, at present, I wouldn't expect for any long lasting truces." He gave the taller man a heavy pat on the back and grinned widely. "Sounds familiar, doesn't it? Just like the good old days." He laughed, adding, "Although with much less darkspawn, red lyrium, and general disarray." 

"At the moment, we are seeking the Grey Wardens," Cullen interjected, watching Anders with interest. "I would have assumed Pentaghast would mentioned it to you. You were once a Grey Warden, were you not? I imagine it is not only your expertise as a healing mage that lead you to be recruited to our forces." 

He downed the rest of his wine with a heavy sigh and rubbed at his eyes with calloused fingertips. Exhaustion and  _annoyance_  gnawed at him.

 

"At present, their forces have scattered and dwindled, and I am not sure that our support can save them from complete dissolution as-is."

But Varric interrupted him. "Actually," the dwarf began, "Curly was mentioning moments ago that he needed to bring a task force to track down a small band of Inquisition soldiers. It is to my understand that we've lost a few of them off the Fallow Mire, and Curly could use a healing mage to accompany us. That is, _if you don't mind my jokes._ "

The commander nearly choked on his steak and coughed, blushing furiously, "The excursion wasn't exactly set in stone, Varric.." he protested, but Varric interjected.

"You did mention that it was tomorrow, and Andraste's blessed us with the gift of a healer right in our lap - isn't that right, Blondy?"

 

Cullen searched Anders's face for a reaction, his own face coloring pink - "Surely, he would need more rest and practice before venturing out for such a high-risk mission.."

 

"Oh, but it's a chance for Blondy to prove his value, is it not? Might as well get down to business, as you're pressed for time."

Cullen stammered. _"But Anders.."_

Anders blinked to find himself the center of conversation once again - but for an entirely different, and more _welcome_  reason. Interest and surprise raised his brows, and he was forced to take another drink before he would let his jaw drop like an imbecile. They had certainly wasted no time! 

_Likely Varric's doing,_ Anders thought. And that filled him with a surge of warmth such that it crowded out Cullen's earlier questioning. At the sound of his own name on Cullen's lips, he looked to the Commander again, and nodded. "I would be pleased to come with you," he said. A glimmer of happiness that had been absent in the past number of years shone in him, and he nodded again, eagerly, and showed more animation in those few moments than he had so far.

"I haven't forgotten how to heal, nor am I utterly atrocious at fighting." Then, he another swallow of wine passed his lips, and he smiled at Cullen and Varric yet again. "I shall follow where you lead." The wine had made him freer with his words and niceties, but, were they not trying to build better relations?

Cullen paused. Bringing Anders along was a terrible idea, but the bright expression that grew on Anders's face made him bite his tongue.

"I..I suppose we all have a busy morning ahead of us then," he murmured, sighing in defeat.  _And hopefully, not too much of a hangover_.

If Anders would stab him in the back, he supposed he'd get it over with. He didn't quite trust the mage's intentions, although he did understand that the mage needed somewhere  _to belong_. As did he.

 

"Speaking of which, I'd better head off to get some shut-eye," Varric bellowed with an interrupting burp, "I will leave you two blondes to it. Roommates now, I hear?" He laughed as he rose from the table, and Cullen pushed his plate away. For someone who had lost Hawke and a home, Varric had no animosity.

Cullen inhaled and drummed the wooden table with his knuckles. "And like breakfast, here we are again." he offered, seeking to fill the awkward silence. 

Anders seemed pleased, eager to prove his worth - and Cullen was beginning to feel that he  _actually believed_  it. 

"...I...uh, I hope you slept well enough?" he stammered, rubbing his neck with impatience. The blush rose from his neck again, tinging his earlobes with humiliation. Once the Commander's anger dissipated, the intimidation always fell away, and it became painfully obvious that social interactions weren't Cullen's forte...

Anders toyed with his glass, and thought, briefly, of filling it again, before he met Cullen's eye across he table, and immediately thought better. He was right; they likely would have an early morning ahead. And yet, the hour was not so late that he felt exhaustion drawing him once again into its grasp. "...here we are."

He stared down at the wood grain beneath his fingers and nodded. "..I did," he answered truthfully. "Slept better than I have in months." Another smile, a flicker of worry in his eyes.  _Aside from the nightmares..,_ he thought, smile fading. But, that was one thing that Cullen would likely find out in his own time. 

Now that there was a friendlier atmosphere about, Anders noticed little things about he Commander that he had missed during their initial reunion. Cullen fidgeted, for one, his hands ever-moving. Neck to table, drumming, tapping, rubbing. He had the same tired look in his eyes that Anders knew he himself possessed.

"And...yourself?" he asked. "Have you been resting well?"

Resting well? If you considered the terrible nightmares a pleasant side-attraction to his sleep, then sure, perhaps Rutherford could say that he  _rested well_. But it couldn't have been farther from the case, and he'd only hoped that the wine would be enough to drug him into some semblance of peaceful rest. 

"As far as I am concerned, I don't believe anyone in my position has the opportunity to truly  _rest well_ ," he offered, his voice trailing. "'I have...become  _accustomed_  to it."

Such idle chatter made him feel even more uncomfortable, but he pressed on. A hint of a smile from Anders, a little glimmer of hope in the mage's eyes. Cullen supposed that his attempt at conversation and politeness wasn't too terrible and off-putting.

"I will admit that I can be somewhat of a restless sleeper. Hopefully, you will not find me too much of a nuisance."

He wasn't aware of Anders' sensitivity, but Cullen himself could sleep through most - as evident by his previous living accomodations. The elements, insects, and noise of Skyhold hadn't bothered him, and in fact, Cullen had secretly enjoyed staring at the stars..

If Cullen was to take arrows for the other, or Anders, to become immersed elbow-deep in Cullen's blood, he supposed, with reluctance, that he'd muster some kindness.

"I understand your own living situations were less than...favorable. Where were you  _dwelling_ , if I may use the word, before the Inquisition?"

Anders drew in a breath through his nose and blew it out his mouth. "Wherever I could that wouldn't get me on the wrong end of a Templar's sword. Mostly the deeper reaches of the Hinterlands, far enough away from Redcliffe to be hidden, yet...close enough to help when I could." he said, and idly began to toy with the clean edge of his sleeve, so different to him after the frayed cuffs and loose strings and buckles that were near to falling away.  "It wasn't the best of  _living situations,_ no."

As he spoke, he thought he caught Cullen shifting in his seat, nervously. Was it the lack of sleep that bothered him so? Or the conversation? He admitted, he wasn't overly fond of the subject matter himself, so he yawned lightly into his sleeve, and tucked a loose strand of hair back behind one ear. 

"So...suppose Seeker Penteghast will approve of me joining right in?" he asked, and his gaze had returned to Cullen's own instead of making notes about whatever little tic he saw.

"I suppose she expects you to immediately delve into the combat and prove yourself," Cullen replied, pushing the flagon of wine away. He _couldn't_ have another glass - despite  _wanting to._  "I expect that she has heard enough about your capabilities from Varric that she feels confident in your ability to perform. And, as I trust Varric, as another member of this Inquisition, despite his.. _.penchant for false elaboration_ , I will assume his recommendations as true."

Glancing down at Anders's plate, he sighed. Of course, Anders never ate much, but he would have to force the issue. "Speaking of assumptions, I will assume you've had your share of dinner. As before, I would advise you to have another serving if you're to build up into something among us." Cullen pointedly ignored the mage's yawn, pouring himself another glass of wine.  _Andraste_ , he had told himself he _wouldn't._  

 

"In any case, tomorrow morning, you'll be wishing you lingered at the table longer, while the bread is hot and the atmosphere is relaxed." He wet his lips again, a deep berry stain developing.  _Not the lyrium,_  he thought to himself, _but alcohol dependency wasn't exactly favorable either._ Combat in the morning? Cullen had dragged his sickly self into combat before. 

He flushed under the affects, almost feeling  _friendly_ . "Before we, ahem, settle down for the night under the same roof..." he began, words a little slurred, "I would imagine that your position in the Inquisition is only temporary. What are your intentions after you've contributed here?" Anders seemed to be.. _vibrating. Was that the wine?_

"I would say, no matter the history, whether favorable or leaving something to be desired....it is always surprisingly soothing to see a familiar face."

Well, Cullen  _meant it_. Although, maybe, his current condition had something to do with his uncharacteristically positive attitude and... _courtesy_. "I'd be rude drinking all of this myself," Cullen murmured, reaching over to pour Anders a small bit more of wine. In fact, drinking by himself made him feel... _lonely_ , and he suddenly felt generous. His warm fingers brushed against the mage's as they retreated, and, in spite of himself, Cullen did not recoil. 

Warmth spread throughout Anders at the simple brush of Cullen's fingers. How long had it been since he'd felt the warmth of another person given so freely? Even if it had been accidental..it had been too long. Far too long, indeed. Not since-...n _ot since Hawke_. The mage  smiled slightly more, and took a sip, letting the wine warm him inside and out.

"I must agree with you. It was....very nice to see someone I recognized, here among these unfamiliar faces."

For, even though their last meeting had been through the bowels of Kirkwall itself, there was something in Cullen's gaze that he recognized, deeper even than the warmth of kindness. The same haunted look, deep down inside. He didn't have to look hard, for he saw the same look in his own eyes.

 "I...hadn't given it much thought.." Anders said as he licked a ruby stain from his own lips. "What would happen  _after_. In truth, I did not expect  _this_  to happen." A soft chuckle escaped him. "For now, I cannot say, other than...perhaps I will stay." He nodded, and lifted his glass to his lips once again as he picked absently at what remained on his plate. "What about you, then? Do you intend to be Commander to the Inquisition's forces forever?"

Cullen laughed. " _Forever?_  Certainly not." His gaze grew distant, as he remembered his childhood home, now distant from Skyhold's borders. "I would probably return home, to Fereldan," Cullen began with fondness, memories of his siblings and mother flooding to mind. "A small village called Honnleath, I haven't returned since I joined the Templar Order at thirteen." he continued, a smile curling his lips.

"'I'd always dreamed of being a Templar, since the age of thirteen, so I was restless and ready to escape. Now that I am an older man, what I  _wouldn't give to be back_." He laughed into his cup of wine, a soft chuckle rumbling in his throat. "Ah, there were good memories. Now, the only taste of home comes froms the nosy letters my sister sends." He smiled to himself. "And Maker, is she  _persistent_." Cullen added, his gaze towards Anders warm and appreciative. It was the wine, of course - Cullen would be hostile again by the morning, but for  _now_  - "I am afraid that I have probably had enough glasses of wine, so I will be retiring now. Morning arrives early."

He rose to leave the table and cursed, fumbling with his armor. "Andraste, if I can recall where Pentaghast relocated us. If you are finished for tonight, do you mind giving a tour?" He rubbed his forehead, his usual blush returning. "The Commander is directed by the newest recruit,  _lovely_. A  _lovely_  impression of authority I've made today." Cullen laughed softly under his breath. So this is what it came to. A reversal fo roles, essentially.  _Maker, Cullen felt a mess._

_"Maybe it's a blessing that I am sharing quarters with someone after all..."_

"Well, I should like to think-" Anders paused to drain the last of his own glass, just to feel its warmth one one time, and laughed gently. "...I should like to think I'm not entirely terrible company..This wouldn't be the first time I'd played walking-stick to someone else."

He chuckled again as he rose, and extended a hand in silent offering of his support. Perhaps the wine had gotten to  _him_  as well.

"At the very least, I won't wind up walking us right over the battlements." he said with an almost playful grin as they walked out of the hall. Anders had found his way to the food with little aid; surely he could manage the way back. 

Soon enough, they were walking the battlements at an easy pace. Stars winked down at them from overhead, and the mage paused, just to breathe in a bit of fresh air. 

"I think it was....somewhere around,...here?" he queried to the darkness. All of the twists and turns started to look the same after a while, especially when one had been somewhat  _addled_. Another smile quirked his lips and he giggled, taking a seat along the stone wall.

"You mentioned the Templars.." he said, looking up at the stars. "When did you finally come to the Circle to serve? I was brought there around my eighth year. I thought it was the most  _dreadful_  place I'd ever seen; tall and dark...the spire seemed to rise right into the clouds. And it was so bloody cold sitting in that little boat as we crossed the lake. Irving tried to be kind, though; gave me a blanket as soon as the doors opened."

_He shook his head and combed a hand through his hair. _Why was he telling him this? Had the wine addled him that much?__

Cullen tried to recall the age when he'd reached the Circle, and paused to contemplate. Under the stars, he shivered, tugging at his fur mantle for warmth.

"I...I...within the same year I was recruited, I  _believe_ , I was assigned to the Circle Tower at Kinloch Hold," he finally answered, leaning on Anders for support. "Under the leadership of Knight-Commander Greagoir, before the days when I'd become a Knight-Commander myself." Cullen sighed, exhaling a billowing cloud into the chilled air. "Ah, well,  _you know, Kirkwall,_ ah, a subject that is probably  _indecent_  to mention at present.  _Anyhow_  - no, I imagine...ah,  _Andraste!_ "

He grunted, nearly tripping over his own feet, and held onto Anders to steady himself.  _Maker, what a catastrophe_.

As Cullen's weight pressed against him, Anders realized that the man was firm.  _Very_  firm, even beneath the plate armor. And strong, to boot. Briefly, Anders realized that the man could hurl him over the battlements with little trouble if he so chose...and instead gripped his robes tight. Moonlight glinted off of Cullen's golden curls, caught in his warm hazel eyes, and lit upon the curious scar just over the Commander's lip. Anders was surprised to find himself staring, and swallowed - even more surprised to find his throat dry.

Anders blushed.

Anders was close that, under the moonlight, he could see each blonde hair of his beard. Warmth radiated from the mage, and, humiliated, Cullen released him. He took a brave stride forward.

"Of course the  _experience,_  you would say, would be quite....different between the two of us. Not yet a man, and overseeing Harrowings, it was quite the,  _responsibility._ " 

There was no way to discuss his past without encountering the subject of  _magic_ , and, feeling a building urge to descend into a tirade against mages, Cullen grew silent. It was most likely wise to avoid the subject of Templars entirely - especially when Anders was easily capable of knifing him in his sleep. He had already revealed  _too much_  - his past, his childhood, and his collective feelings over the subject - all under a pretense of false friendliness.

In short, Cullen disgusted himself. He didn't need a  _mage's_  help finding a bed. Suddenly furious, the Templar opened the door and stumbled through the darkened corridor, determined to reach his bed  _alone_.  _"Not that I would have anything in common with likes of you._ " he murmured crossly under his breath.  _"..Mages."_

"Oh-!.." Anders gripped onto the Commander's arms to help him find his feet, all the while his gaze lingered on Cullen's face, and his  _warmth_  - until the man stood on his own and all but shook him off. Anders's smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and he was left staring after Cullen as the Commander stumbled into he darkened room.

Cullen finally collapsed on the snow-ridden bed and began discarding his armor with haste. _"Too much wine,"_  Cullen grumbled, grateful to be free of the heavy plate. He kicked off his boots and wriggled out of his tunic, too intoxicated to give a damn. Anyone could have shared a room with him then - as he promptly nestled himself against the covers and closed his eyes.  _"Too much..."_

The mage sighed, and, after listening to him thump and work at his armor in the dark, conjured a weak fire spell and lit the taper by his own bed, thereby granting at least a small bit of light to pierce the darkness.

When he did, he saw that his room-mate, for lack of a better term, had given up on stripping down and just about fallen unconscious the second his head hit the pillow. Anders sighed, shook his head, and shrugged out of his robes as best he could, stripping down to his undershirt and trousers, before he slipped beneath the covers.

With one last glance at the man in the neighboring bed, he blew out he candle and closed his eyes as the room was plunged into darkness once more.


End file.
